The New Generation
by Mandy Kay Miller
Summary: Will's story years after the end of the movie. A lot of things have changed... he now has a sister and a father, but Peter still isn't there to be his brother. That is, until Will recieves a letter from Peter dated after the death of Hitler. Is he stil
1. Seeing Thomas Again

"Will!" Clara said when I walked into the Café Bismark. "I thought you wouldn't make it tonight."

"I can't stay for more than an hour," I replied. "If my parents found out that I was at a Swing party…" I let it hang.

"We've missed you here. Everyone says you're the best dancer."

I smiled. "I've missed myself. My Swing Kid self. I'm sorry I wasn't able to come sooner."

My step-father is a Nazi. My mother married him four years ago, 2 years after my brother Peter had been sent to a concentration camp. My real father was dead, and had been since before I could now remember. I was only three at the time, but when Peter felt like it he would tell me about it.

But now that Peter is gone, I suppose I'm carrying on the tradition that he started. Going to Swing parties. I suppose music is in my blood, since my real father was a violinist in Beetoven's band. Since my new father is a Nazi and has convinced my mother that they are superior, both my parents now condemn Swing music. That is why I ultimately have to sneak out of the house.

"Would you like to dance, Clara?" I asked. Clara was very pretty, and we often danced when I was able to come.

She laughed. "Well, aren't _you_ eager."

"I haven't danced in a week," I replied. "I need to."

"Just wait for a minute. I have to tell you something. Thomas is here."

"Thomas? Berger?" This was strange. Thomas had been Peter's friend, but I hadn't seen him in 6 years, the night Peter was taken away. I shivered remembering that night. I was angry. And scared. And most of all, lonely. Peter was a typical brother. Yes, he made fun of me sometimes and yes, he saw me as a pest, but we were still close. He loved me, I knew. And when I saw him in that truck I was so mad at the Nazis. So much, that I vowed to do anything and everything I could to hurt them. So when my mother married one, I was crushed.

"Yes. He was looking for you."

I looked around and spotted him staring at me. Once I caught his gaze he smiled at me, but I didn't return it.

"I'll be right back," I said. I started towards Thomas. He looked so different.

"Willie Muller?" he asked.

"Thomas Berger," I replied. "You look so different."

"I'm much older now," he answered. "You, too, have changed, but I was still able to recognize you. You look so much like Peter did."

I didn't like mention of my brother. I rarely do. Over the years, I found that the best way to deal with his leaving is to ignore it. "What do you want?" I asked.

"I wanted to see how you're doing. I was also wondering if you'd heard from him."

"Peter writes," I replied. "Sometimes."

"What does he say?"

"I don't know. Mother doesn't always read them. When she does, she doesn't let me read them. I imagine she doesn't want me to know the horrors of those death camps." That was part of the truth. But I believed that the _real_ reason she didn't let me read them was because she didn't want Peter's words "poisoning" my mind. He probably talked a lot about the overthrow of the Nazis and how much he looked forward to it, and she didn't want me to share his views.

"Does she keep them? The ones she doesn't read?"

"No," I replied. "She throws them away. Why?"

"I was wondering if he was alive yet, is all. He stopped contacting me. What was the last letter you received?"

"I don't know," I said, feeling reluctant to give him too much information. I didn't know if he was still following Hitler or not, and maybe he was gathering information for them.

"Are you sure?" he asked, looking desperate.

"I'm sure," I replied firmly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to offend you. But it's been bothering me for some time now, and I've been wondering how to find out if he was still alive. I thought I might as well try you."

"My mother doesn't tell me things. We rarely talk. When we do, it's of no importance."

"That's too bad. I hope you get a better relationship with her."

"I don't. She married a Nazi and now shares their views. I have no desire to be close to her."

"How unfortunate."

"Don't pity me, Thomas. Please. I'm better off than Hitler's mindless marching followers as of this moment."

I studied him hard, trying to see if he would give away anything to me as a clue to what his beliefs were, but he stood still.

"I'm sorry, Willie."

"Will," I replied. "Willie was what they called me when I was little."

Thomas smiled. "I'll have to get used to that. To me you were always "Willie." Well, goodbye."

"Goodbye, Thomas."

A/N: What was that one dude's name? The one who tells Peter to spy on the bookseller, and at the end says "Such a waste" when Peter's dragged off? Because so far I've been calling him "The Nazi" or "Father" but sooner or later, I'm gonna need a name. Thanx!!!!!! (If you don't know, could you at least give me a German name that I could use? I'm bad with making up/finding names.)


	2. Karen

A/N: thank you ferret in NYC for the review! Lol, I hope I get more SOMETIME. Anyway, I don't know a lot about Hitler's death, all I know is it was suicide, his burned body was found with his burned wife, and that's about it. So the other stuff that I may tend to add is made up, please don't hurt me. And I called Peter and Willie's real dad "Dedrich" because once again, I stink at names. Dedrich is actually Thomas's dad, but oh well. Enough with this. Here is… (suspense builds)… Chapter TWO!!!!! *insert applause*

I walked into the house and found my mother waiting for me. "Will," she said. "Where on earth have you been?"

I'd become very good at lying over the years, so this wasn't a hard question. "I just went for a walk, mother," I replied calmly, hanging up my coat. "Why?"

"Adolf Hitler is dead," she replied, looking troubled. "His body was found in his room this morning along with his wife's. They were burned."

Though this was good news for me, I couldn't show it since it was obviously bad for her and "father." "What's happening, then?" I asked. "What has changed?"

"Everything. Nazis no longer mean anything. Everything is changing back to the way it used to be. Concentration camps are being shut down, and-"

"Peter?" I interrupted eagerly. "Will he be freed?"

"Yes. I'm making arrangements to send him to your Aunt Delores in America."

"Why isn't he coming home?" I demanded, suddenly angry. "He's family… my brother… I, I love him. Can't he come here?"

"No, no," she said, shaking her head. "He would never belong back here in this house. Not with your father here, especially. They don't take to each other, and it would be far too complicated. No, this way is the best way."

"My father is dead," I said harshly. "That man, that… creature, that "Nazi" is Karen's father, not mine."

"Don't you dare speak that way about him!" she snapped. "He is not your real father, no. But he has been more of a father to you than Dedrich ever was! He cares for you, he supports you, he pays for your education, and he puts food on the table to keep you strong."

I wanted to hit her so hard that she'd fly straight up to the ceiling right then, but I've learned to respect my elders. Instead, I stormed past her into my room. It may have been childish of me, but I didn't know what else to do, and I certainly didn't want to hear her talk badly about my father.

Because he was a wonderful one, I just knew it. No matter what my mother said, he loved us. Anyone who loves his kids is a good father, and that's how I was able to be so sure.

My eyes fell on Peter's empty bed. It was still there. After six years, his bed was still sitting there in the exact same spot it always had been. I'll never know why. Maybe a last shred of decency that survived in my mother wanted him to come home. Maybe somewhere she still hoped…

"Hope," I muttered. "It has spoiled us. Those who never hope are never disappointed."

A small noise drew my attention to the crib next to Peter's empty mattress. In it lay Karen, my two-year-old half-sister. She was adorable, I had to confess, but I still hated her, because she was a mix of my dear mother who I used to love and the monster who slept with her.

Then I remembered Peter's words. "I won't have him sitting or sleeping where my father did." I remembered also the vicious slap that those words had earned him, and how later that night he told me that no one was ever going to take him away. He lied. And had he been here, he could have prevented their marriage. And Karen.

"If I could love you, I would," I told Karen. "But I can't. It's too hard to love an accident. Too hard to love someone who has even a little bit of Nazi in them. Your father… he was a nice man. Really. But no, he follows the wrong person. He does the wrong things. But it isn't your fault. Not your fault that you were born to such horrible parents, such a strange family filled with mix feelings. But I could never love a mistake like you, Karen. I'm sorry. You deserve a loving brother, but I just can't."

A/N: sorry for the short chap, but at this point the presentations that were being given ended, and I had to go to another class. =) that's right, I did this during class. But don't tell my teacher, please! ;-) Oh, and if you like it, review and encourage me to update. If you hate it, review and tell me how bad it is. Either way, you must review!!! (I can handle flames, try me! =)


	3. *He is dead*

A/N: this fic is FINISHED BEING WRITTEN, the only catch is I have to update it. In case you haven't noticed, I don't like to update if I don't have many reviews, so if you want more, YOU MUST TELL ME! Otherwise, I won't waste my time typing it!! Anyway, thanks!

Oh, and dates in this chap and the next few play a big part, so pay attention! If you don't get it at the end of the next three, I'll spell it out for you. Glad I got that out!

ONE more thing… I still need that guy's name. Until I get one, Will's just gonna call him father. I honestly think he'd call him by his first name since he's a Nazi and Will would probably be bitter, but if I don't have a name, there isn't much I can do about that. Sorry!

Swing Heil,

~RIA~

For 3 days I waited impatiently for Peter to come back. I ate little and never left the house, always waiting for either him or news of him. I wasn't able to receive much sleep, and when I did I never slept very well. Mother tried not to notice, and father was usually gone anyway. Finally, on September 10th, there was a knock on the door that I ran quickly to answer.

I opened the door and saw father standing there, looking grim.

"Why are you home early?" I asked.

"I'm still working, but we are delivering the people from the camps and I wanted to be the one to tell you of your brother."

My eyes widened in excitement and I smiled brightly. "Peter? Where is he?"

"He is dead."

I was overjoyed only a moment ago, and now I wanted to cry. Dead? My brother who I loved so much? Who promised me that no one would ever take him away?

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm sorry. He died August 26 just this year."

I felt my eyes grow hot with tears. "August 26… 2 weeks ago. If… if only he would have survived a little longer…"

"Tell your mother, she will want to know. I have to go now. I won't be home until late. Heil Hitler."

I raised my arm in reply, and responded half-heartedly. "Heil Hitler."

It took every ounce of strength in my body to close the door. Peter was dead. I would never see him again…

A/N: yeah, this one is WAY short, but the next one is really, REALLY interesting… =)


	4. The Letter

Still another week passed. Another gloomy, sorrowful week filled with anguish and tears. But one night when mother and father were out having dinner there was a knock on the door. I opened it and received an envelope addressed to me. I rarely get mail, so I was more than curious. I opened it and was amazed to find that it was from Peter before he died. I sat down hard and began to read it.

Dear Willie-

I can't tell you how much I miss you. Every day, the only thing that keeps me going is hope to see you again. I wonder what you look like many sleepless nights. You're taller, I know. And stronger, much stronger. I'll bet you're handsome, because you have father's blood in you.

I assume mother looks mostly the same as I remember her, because she's fully grown and couldn't of changed much. But maybe her hair is greyer, and she has a few small wrinkles. But even those small changes are hard for me to imagine. She never seemed to age to me, and maybe she still hasn't.

And sometimes when I'm working or getting beaten, it doesn't seem as painful as it should. Do you know why? Because I daydream about you and what you are doing at that very moment. At night I hope you're swinging, but I can never be sure. I fear too much has changed for that. I really, really do wish it, though. It is so much fun, Willie. Honest. You must at least try it.

But then, maybe I shouldn't encourage you to. The last thing I want is for you to be here. Or, let me rephrase that: the last thing I want is for you to experience what I have experienced. But I _do_ want to be with you. If only for a minute, just to say hello. Or long enough to look at you, just once.

I miss mother, too. So much. We weren't on good terms when I left, and that I regret with all my heart. Love her, Willie. Love her and respect her and do as she tells you. I don't care if she's changed or not, you must always respect your parents… if not for anyone else, please do it for me since I have now lost my last chance.

I wish I could tell you this advice to you face-to-face, but I'm afraid that too much separates us. Far too much. Miles, mostly. Miles, along with most of Germany. I don't want to write the rest of this letter, but you deserve to know what I'm going through. If you're in a fragile state right now, I beg you to stop reading and save this for another time, because I don't want my words to haunt you in your sleep.

Each of the camps in this area have numbers, from what I understand. My camp's number is 1789511. All of the residents are tattooed with numbers, too. We are shaved bald and transform from humans to numbers. It is horrible, not only the pain of the number being burned into us but the reason behind it. As you can guess, we all look mostly the same. I try not to look at my number on my underarm. I feel that if I ignore it then it will go away. But I must give it to you, because it may help you find me someday. Mine is 259728.

I get very lonely here. I know no one, and I'm afraid to make friends because they would only die soon and I feel it's best not to get too attached. I don't know exactly what it is they feed us here… something between stew and vomit, I imagine. You may think I'm joking, but I'm not. Sometimes I truly wonder if they take the vomit from the prisoners and mix it with the food to create more of it or something.

I heard that as many as 600 people die here each day. I am very lucky, because I have survived for a very long time. I hear that if you are in average health when brought here, you will most likely live for 2 months. I suppose swing dancing and all of that exercise did me good, but it is not only my health that helps me survive. It is also my luck.

I share a small 1-man bunk with two other people. Often the two on the outside, or even all three of us, will wake up on the floor. We used to fight over who slept in the middle, but now we are all so weak that we simply take turns. It is the smart thing, anyway. Did I say "sleep?" I didn't mean it, because we rarely sleep. It is very hard to with the people all around me groaning like they do. For pain, hunger, or emotional reasons I don't know. Sometimes I'm not sure I'd like to know.

No one is really very friendly, but it would be unfair to call them mean. Most people just ignore the world around them and do what they must. Everyone knows that if even 1 punch is thrown, 5 bones will break because we are so scrawny. We are smart enough to stay away from fights.

For the first time since father died I have shed tears. I thought I was doing well. Coping well and getting emotionally stronger, but this place has broken me. Not always for the simple reason that it seems hopeless, but it hurts me to think that maybe father endured this. Maybe worse, even. I don't know.

Now I am beginning to have wet eyes, so I'm afraid I have to go. Mind your mother. Even if she doesn't show it, she loves you more than you will ever know. And be grateful for everything, even simple things like a piece of bread. You don't realize how much it's worth until you suddenly loose it all. I hope I can somehow get out of here and see you soon.

Your loving brother,

Peter


	5. The 2nd Letter

A/N: yay! I'm happy because I got reviews. Thank you to everyone so much! If you're ever bored, read my others, too! And I'll try to read yours… Oh, and I found out that the Nazi guy's name is Hector, but I still don't know his last name. That German accent makes it hard! Oh, well.

I sat on the couch and cried until my stomach begged me to stop. I couldn't imagine my big, strong, brave brother crying like he said he was. And somehow I felt guilty for not being with him.

The door opened and I quickly folded up the letter and shoved it under my shirt. I wiped away my tears and stood.

"Will," mother said. "Your eyes… are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I replied, trying to sound convincing.

"If you're sure."

I started away, but once I was out of sight my mother said something to Hector. I stopped walking and listened.

"You should begin writing that letter to your official."

"I'll work on nit tomorrow. For now I need a break."

Then it was silent. I guessed that they went into the kitchen or sat on the couch. I went into my room and shut the door. I pulled out the letter and put it in a drawer, then went to bed early.

~*~

The next morning I was at the table eating some toast. I couldn't help but think of Peter and all the others in the camps… how they probably never had anything as good as even stale bread there. Stew and vomit, Peter had told me. And I also thought about how maybe they only had a few meals a week. Suddenly, I felt guilty again.

Mother was sleeping in, and Hector was at the table writing something. I assumed that it was that letter to his official that mother had mentioned.

The phone rang. Hector hesitated, then got up and went into another room to answer it.

His hesitation caught my eye. It was as if he didn't want to leave something alone. The letter.

I could hear him talking on the phone in the background, and my curiosity overtook me. What was the letter about? Why did he have to write it to a Nazi official, if the Nazis were now finished?

I hesitated, then stood. I cautiously walked over to where he'd been sitting and peered at the letter.

General Schlecher-

I am happy to report that I have successfully completed my orders. They were strictly to execute my lot of the survivors from camp 1789511. Numbers 398127, 326695, and 259728 were killed by me personally. I hope that

I didn't read the rest. Was that Peter's camp? His number?

I scrambled for the pen and scribbled all four numbers on the inside of my hand. I heard footsteps coming nearer and darted for my chair.

I resumed eating as if nothing had happened. He didn't notice that I'd been up. Luckily.

I hurried through breakfast and put my dishes in the sink. Then I rushed to my room and immediately looked for the letter. I found it without any trouble. Comparing the numbers, I found-

Two of them were exact!

"No," I said. "It can't… I got it wrong. I…" Examining them again, I found that they were identical. The man in the kitchen had killed my brother. Personally, according to the letter.

I decided right then that I had to get a hold of that letter. Had to. Maybe I copied it wrong. Maybe I was so anxious and scared that I didn't see clearly.

I glanced at the top of Peter's letter and the date caught my eye. Aug. 30, 1945.

August 30th! Hector had told me that he died August 26th!

If he lied, then it would only make sense that he had a reason. The reason was that he killed him.

I wasn't sad. I was angry. How dare he take away my brother! We were so close… Peter had survived the camp. He had been alive when Hitler died. He should be home with me. He should be alive. Should be…

But he wasn't.


	6. Friendly Advice

A/N: I apologize in advance for any type Os, but I'm trying to type this fast and get it out of the way. Not that I don't like this story, I just have so much else to do. Thanxs for dealing with me! =)

I walked into the Café Bismark that night. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to dance with so many heavy thoughts on my mind, but if all else failed, I would see Clara. Other than my brother, she's the closest I've ever felt to another person.

I scanned the tables and looked for her, but saw no one with her same silky hair and fair complexion. Then I noticed the two people in the center of all the dancing. Clara and another boy I'd seen around but didn't know his name.

I watched them until they ended their dance, then approached Clara. "Out of breath?" I asked.

She turned and her eyes widened at seeing my face. "Will!" she said. "I thought I'd never see you here again!"

"Why's that?"

"Well, I thought with Hitler's death and all that you'd be around more often, but I never saw you, so I assumed that… maybe you didn't like swing anymore. Or that your parents caught you. Or… something." She smiled. "I'm glad to see you, thought. You're the heart of this place."

"You're a great dancer, Clara," I said. "Maybe you'd like to rest, though. Or have some water?"

"I would," she replied. We walked over to a table and she sipped on one of the glasses on it. "Maybe in a little while you'd like a dance?"

"I might," I said. "In fact, I would if I weren't in such a serious mood."

Clara put her glass down and every hint of joy and pleasure left her face. "What happened?"

"It's Peter," I said. "He's… gone."

"Oh, Will. I'm so sorry."

"That's not all," I said, swallowing. Would I be able to say this? "My… my father. He- he killed him." I had to choke the words out and I felt tears threatening to come.

Clara gasped. "Are you sure? How-"

"I'm sure. He lied to me. Said Peter… that he died on the 26th. But Peter wrote me a letter on the 30th. And he gave me his number that was tattooed on his arm. Father was writing a letter this morning." I sniffed and pulled two letters out of my pocket and handed them to her. "I need to get the one father wrote back to the house as soon as possible, please hurry and read it. He thinks he lost it. One is from Peter, the other from father. I want you to read them."

Clara stared at the folded papers in her hand for a minute, then suddenly set them down as if she'd been burned. She began to sob. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"Clara, don't cry," I said gently, tears welling up in me as well. "If you cry, I will, too. And I don't want to cry. Especially not here."

She shook her head. "I can't help it. You don't deserve this, Will. You're a better person. You need better than a Nazi father and a brother who's gone, and a monster step-sister…"

A few of my tears fell. "Don't, please. I came for help. Advice. I don't want to cry," I repeated. "Not here, not now."

Clara continued to cry, her tears flowing down her cheeks like a rushing river. "You- you loved him. So much. And he loved you."

_Don't cry,_ I told myself. _Peter wouldn't want you to. Be a man. Act like a man._

I dried my tears and sniffed again. "Hush, Clara," I said. "You'll attract attention."

She followed my lead and dried her own tears. "I suppose you're right."

"What should I do? I feel I must get revenge on my father, but I would never be able to kill him. If I did, how is that different than what they do to the Jews?"

"Because," she replied, her face now determined. "They kill Jews simply because they're Jews. You would kill him because he killed Peter."

"Would I?" I wondered aloud. "Or would that only be my excuse to kill a Nazi?"

Clara blinked. "But it is a righteous excuse."

"It isn't and you know it. There's no such thing.

"Then think about it and make sure you know what your motives are. If they are pure, kill him."

"Now, wait a minute," I said. "Did I suddenly cross a line of morality? I will _not_ become a murderer. No. There must be another way to-"

"You aren't going to change him, Will. Not everything can be solved with words."

"Not everything can be solved with violence," I replied.

"Don't argue. I only mean that your words would fall to the floor before they reach his ears. He won't listen. He's a Nazi, don't you know what that means? Cold, heartless, unforgiving."

"That's not true," I said. "You can't make that assumption about all of them. Peter was in the HJ, and he was never like them. Never. And the Nazis are lied to. Brainwashed. It isn't their fault they-"

Before I knew it, my cheek stung. Clara had slapped me with all her might, and it hurt more than physically.

"I don't know you!" she cried. "If you dare start to defend them, God help me, I'll…"

I rubbed my aching cheek. "I'm sorry. But they don't know that the Jews are humans. They aren't taught that. They don't know that Jews have feelings."

"Yes? Well they don't' think cats are humans, but you don't see them killing all pets, do you?" I was silent. "DO YOU?!" she demanded, waiting for an answer.

"No," I replied. "I'm sorry. Calm down. You're right, OK? You're right. But I'm still not going to kill my father."

"Then what _will_ you do?"

The question was like a knife to my throat. A wrong answer, a wrong decision, could mess up my life. I had to think about this for a while. But then… what _could_ I do? Kill him, talk to him… what else?

"I can't do anything," I said finally. "So I won't."

Then came the second slap brought me to my senses. "Are you done?" she asked, looking at me expectantly. "Done defending _them?_ Because my hand is sore and my patience is thin."

I sighed. "Yes, I'm done. I'm done."

"Good. Will?"

"Yes, Clara?"

"Do me a favor. Kill him."


	7. *I'm sorry, mama*

A/N: sorry for the sudden ending, but I was running out of steam and I knew that if I didn't end this soon I'd never finish it due to a major block, so it had to end. If you want to write an alternate sequence of alternate ending, feel free to e-mail me. I'd post that instead of this garbage. Let me know, I wouldn't mind!

Father noticed it missing. The letter. He'd been complaining about it and wondering what to do. He had to send it. But I wasn't worried. He would be dead soon. It would all be over.

I didn't have a plan. All I knew was that when he went to bed tonight he wouldn't wake up. And I would use a gun. His gun.

That night I went into their room at 12:30 at night. I looked around a bit for the weapon since it was dark, then finally found it. I gently picked it out of the belt and cocked it.

I looked at the two sleeping figures lying on the bed and determined who was who. One of these I loved, and one I hated. I took aim at the Nazi.

I fired.

My mother woke in an instant. Her eyes snapped open and shined from the moonlight coming in from the window. "Will?" she demanded, her voice shrill. But it was a question. She couldn't quite make out my face in the light.

"I'm sorry, mama."

She knew what I'd done. It was so obvious now. There was a loud gunshot and her husband didn't wake up. Now she knew everything. "Will!" She lunged out of bed at me. For the first time, I was terrified of her. I'd been a little scared of her before, but now I was shaking. I ran out the door and onto the street. Once I was outside, she stopped following me.

I ran and ran. I didn't even know where I was going at first. I just ran.

I stopped when I was out of breath and looked up. I was at Clara's house. My feet had taken me to the only place I could go. The only place I _should_ go.

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked harder and waited, then it opened.

"Will?" her father asked. "Is that you? What are you doing?"

"I must speak with Clara," I said. "I know it's late, but please, Heir Schrechler, you must. It's very urgent."

"Come in, come in," he said, opening the door. I stepped inside and shut it.

"I'll get her," he said. He rushed up the stairs.

In 2 minutes, Clara came down. "Oh, gosh," she said. "What happened?"

"I killed him," I said. "I shot him. In the head. Mother is mad. I think she will report me. I need help." My sentences were short and choppy. I was still scared and nervous.

She paused. "What kind of help?"

"I'm running away," I blurted. I was as shocked at my words as much as she was. Running away? Forever? Leaving my mother and step sister? And Clara? What about the Café Bismark, my second home?

"B… but you can't," she said. "I could never live without you. Never!"

"I must," I replied. "Do you have any money I could borrow? I'll pay you back… every penny. I'll send it to you…"  
She hesitated, then ran into the kitchen. She came back with some money. "Here," she said. "It's my family's… for emergencies."

I took it from her. "Thank you. I'm going to America to live with my aunt. I will send you the money that I owe you once I get there." I turned to leave but stopped when she called me.

"Will, stop."

I turned to face her. "What?"

"I love you," she said, her eyes wet. "I can't loose you. Don't go."

"She lives in Wyoming," I said. "If you ever can get to America…"  
"Will! I said I love you!"

"I know. I love you, too, Clara. Maybe some day we'll meet again."

Leaving that house was the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

THE END!!!!!

A/N: please remember that if you hate this ending as much as I do and would like a different one written by yourself, email me. Please. Cuz I personally hate this ending how it's so rushed. Sorry about that.


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